The Dialect of the West of England; Particularly Somersetshire - James Jennings (book recommendations based on other books txt) 📗

You knaw not, mâ-be, care not you, What pangs jitch tender horts pursue, How grate nor how distressin.

Jan sar’d a varmer vour long years, An now iz haups da brighten: A gennelman of high degree Choos’d en iz hunsman vor to be; His Fanny’s hort da lighten!

“Now, Fan,” zed he, “nif I da live, Nex zummer thee bist mine; Sir John ool gee me wauges good, Amâ-be too zum viër ood!” His Fan’s dork eyes did shine.

“To haw vor thee, my Fan,” a cried, “I iver sholl delight; Thawf I be poor, ‘tool be my pride To ha my Fan vor a buxom bride— My lidden dâ an night.”

A took er gently in iz orms An kiss’d er za zweetly too; His Fan, vor jay, not a word cood speak, Bit a big roun tear rawl’d down er cheak, It zimm’d as thawf er hort ood break— She cood hordly thenk it true.

To zee our hunsman goo abroad, His houns behind en volly; His tossel’d cap—his whip’s smort smack, His hoss a prancin wi’ tha crack, His whissle, horn, an holler, back! Ood cure âll malancholy.

It happ’d on a dork an wintry night, Tha stormy wine a blawin; Tha houns made a naise an a dismal yell; Jitch as zum vawk zâ da death vaurtell, The cattle loud war lawin.

Tha hunsman wâkid an down a went; A thawt ta keep ‘em quiet; A niver stopped izzel ta dress, Bit a went in iz shirt vor readiness A voun a dirdful riot.

Bit âll thic night a did not come back; All night tha dogs did raur; In tha mornin thâ look’d on tha kannel stwons An zeed ‘em cover’d wi’ gaur an bwons, The vlesh âll vrom ‘em a taur.

His head war left—the head o’ Jan Who lov’d hiz Fanny za well; An a bizzy gossip, as gossips be Who’ve work o’ ther awn bit vrom it vlee, To Fanny went ta tell.

She hirn’d, she vleed ta meet tha man Who corr’d er dear Jan’s head: An when she zeed en âll blood an gaur, She drapp’d down speechless jist avaur, As thauf she had bin dead.

Poor Fanny com’d ta erzel again, Bit her senses left her vor iver! An all she zed, ba dâ or night— Vor sleep it left her eye-lids quite— War, “why did he goo in the cawld ta shiver?— Niver, O Jan! sholl I zee the, niver!”

[Footnote: See a letter by Edward Band, on this subject, in the prose pieces.]

 

JERRRY NUTTY; OR THE MAN OF MORK.

 

Awa wi’ âll yer tales o’ grief, An dismal storry writin;

A mâ-be zumthin I mâ zing Ool be as much delightin.

Zumtime agoo, bevaur tha moors War tin’d in, lived at Mork One JERRY NUTTY—spry a war; A upp’d avaur the lork.

Iz vather in a little cot Liv’d, auver-right tha moor, An thaw a kipt a vlock o’ geese, A war a thoughted poor.

A niver teach’d tha cris-cross-lain Ta any of his bways, An Jerry, mangst the rest o’m, did Not much appruv his ways.

Vor Jerry zumtimes went ta church Ta hire tha Pâson preach, An thawt what pity that ta read Izzel a cood’n teach.

Vor than, a zunday âternoon, Tha Bible, or good book Would be companion vit vor’m âll Who choos’d therein ta look.

Bit Jerry than tha naise o’ geese Bit little moor could hire;

An dâly goose-aggs ta pick up Droo-out tha moor did tire.

A ôten look’d upon tha hills An stickle mountains roun, An wished izzel upon their taps: What zights a ood be bóun!

Bit what did mooäst iz fancy strick War Glassenberry Torr: A âlways zeed it when tha zun Gleam’d wi’ tha mornin stor.

O’ Well’s grate church a ôten hired, Iz fancy war awake; An zaw a thawt that zoon a ood A journey ta it make.

An Glassenberry’s Torr, an Thorn The hawly blowth of which A hired from one and tother too; Tha like war never jitch!

Bit moor o’ this I need not zâ, Vor off went Jerry Nutty, In hiz right hon a wâkin stick, An in hiz qut a tutty.

Now, lock-y-zee! in whimly dress Trudg’d chearful Jerry on;

Bit on tha moor not vur a went— A made a zudden ston.

Which wâ ta goo a cood not thenk, Vor there war many a wâ; A put upright iz walking stick; A vâll’d ta tha zon o’ dâ.

Ta tha suthard than iz wâ a took Athert tha turfy moors, An zoon o’ blissom Cuzziton, [Footnote: Cossington.] A pass’d tha cottage doors.

Tha maidens o’ tha cottages, Not us’d strange vawk to zee, Com’d vooäth and stood avaur tha door; Jer wonder’d what cood be.

Zum smil’d, zum whecker’d, zum o’m blish’d. “Od dang it!” Jerry zed, “What do tha think that I be like?” An nodded to ‘m iz head.

“Which is tha wâ to Glassenberry? I’ve hired tha hawly thorn War zet there by zum hawly hons Zoon âter Christ war born;

An I’ve a mine ta zee it too, An o’ tha blowth ta take.” “An how can you, a seely man, Jitch seely journey make?

“What! dwont ye knaw that now about It is the midst o’ June? Tha hawly thorn at Kirsmas blaws— You be zix months too zoon.

Goo whim again, yea gâwky! goo!” Zaw zed a damsel vair As dewy mornin late in Mâ; An Jerry wide did stare.

“Lord Miss!” zed he, “I niver thawt, O’ Kirsmas!—while I’ve shoes, To goo back now I be zet out, Is what I sholl not choose.

I’ll zee the Torr an hawly thorn, An Glassenberry too; An, nif you’ll put me in tha wâ, I’ll gee grate thanks ta you.”

Goo droo thic veel an up thic lane, An take tha lift hon path, Than droo Miss Crossman’s backzid strait, Ool bring ye up ta Wrath.

Now mine, whaur you do turn again At varmer Veal’s long yacker, Clooäse whaur Jan Lide, tha cobler, lives Who makes tha best o’ tacker;

You mist turn short behine tha house An goo right droo tha shord, An than you’ll pass a zummer lodge, A builded by tha lord.

Tha turnpick than is jist belaw, An Cock-hill strait avaur ye.” Za Jerry doff’d his hat an bow’d, An thank’d er vor er storry.

Bit moor o’ this I need not zâ, Vor off went Jerry Nutty; In his right hand a wâkin stick, An in hiz qut a tutty.

Bit I vorgot to zâ that Jer A zatchel wi’ en took To hauld zum bird an cheese ta ate;— Iz drink war o’ tha brook.

Za when a got upon Cock-hill Upon a linch a zawt; The zun had climmer’d up tha sky; A voun it very hot.

An, as iz stomick war za good, A made a horty meal; An werry war wi’ wâkin, zaw A sleepid zoon did veel.

That blessed power o’ bâmy sleep, Which auver ivery sense Da wi’ wild whiverin whings extend A happy influence;

Now auver Jerry Nutty drow’d Er lissom mantle wide; An down a drapp’d in zweetest zleep, Iz zatchel by iz zide.

Not all tha nasty stouts could wâke En vrom iz happy zleep, Nor emmets thick, nor vlies that buz, An on iz hons da creep.

Naw dreams a had; or nif a had Mooäst pleasant dreams war thâ: O’ geese an goose-aggs, ducks and jitch; Or Mally, vur awâ,

Zum gennelmen war dreavin by In a gilded cawch za gâ; Thâ zeed en lyin down asleep; Thâ bid the cawchman stâ.

Thâ bâll’d thâ hoop’d—a niver wâk’d; Naw houzen there war handy; Zed one o’m, “Nif you like, my bways, “We’ll ha a little randy!”

“Jist put en zâtly in tha cawch An dreav en ta Bejwâter; An as we âll can’t g’in wi’n here, I’ll come mysel zoon âter.”

Twar done at once: vor norn o’m car’d A strâ vor wine or weather; Than gently rawl’d the cawch along, As zât as any veather.

Bit Jerry snaur’d za loud, tha naise Tha gennelmen did gally; Thâ‘d hâf a mind ta turn en out; A war dreamin o’ his Mally!

It war the morkit dâ as rawl’d Tha cawch athin Bejwâter; Thâ drauv tip ta the Crown-Inn door, Ther Mâ-game man com’d âter.

“Here Maester Wâter! Lock-y-zee! A-mâ-be you mid thenk Thic mon a snauren in tha cawch Is auvercome wi’ drenk.

Bit ‘tis not not jitchy theng we knaw; A is a cunjerin mon, Vor on Cock-hill we vound en ly’d Iz stick stif in his hon.

Iz vace war cover’d thick wi’ vlies An bloody stouts a plenty; Nif he’d o pumple voot bezide, An a brumstick vor’n to zit ascride, O’ wizards a mid be thawt tha pride, Amangst a kit o’ twenty.”

“Lord zur! an why d’ye bring en here To gally âll tha people? Why zuggers! nif we frunt en than, He’ll auver-dro tha steeple.

I bag ye, zur, to take en vooäth; There! how iz teeth da chatter; Lawk zur! vor Christ—look there again! A’ll witchify Bejwâter!”

Tha gennelman stood by an smiled To zee tha bussle risin: Yor zoon, droo-out tha morkit wide Tha news wor gwon saprisin.

An round about tha cawch thâ dring’d— Tha countryman and townsman; An young an awld, an man an maid— Wi’ now an tan, an here an there, Amang tha crowd to gape an stare, A doctor and a gownsman.

Jitch naise an bother wâkid zoon Poor hormless Jerry Nutty, A look’d astunn’d;—a cood’n speak! An daver’d war iz tutty.

A niver in his life avaur ‘ad been athin Bejwâter; A thawt, an if a war alive, That zummet war tha matter.

Tha houzen cling’d together zaw! Tha gennelmen an ladies! Tha blacksmith’s, brazier’s hammers too! An smauk whauriver trade is.

Bit how a com’d athin a cawch A war amaz’d at thenkin; A thawt, vor sartin, a must be A auvercome wi’ drenkin.

Thâ ax’d en nif a’d please to g’out An ta tha yalhouse g’in; Bit thâ zo clooäse about en dring’d A cood’n goo athin.

Ta g’under ‘em or g’auver ‘em A try’d booâth grate and smâll; Bit g’under, g’auver, g’in, or g’out, A cood’n than at âll.

“Lord bless ye! gennel-vawk!” zed he, I’m come to Glassenberry To zee tha Torr an Hawly Thorn; What makes ye look za merry?”

“Why mister wizard? dwont ye knaw, Theäse town is câll’d Bejwâter!” Cried out a whipper-snapper man: Thâ all bust out in lâughter.

“I be’nt a wizard, zur!” a zed; “Bit I’m a little titch’d; [Footnote: Touched.] “Or, witherwise, you mid well thenk I’m, zure anow, bewitch’d!”

Thaw Jerry war, vor âll tha wordle, Like very zel o’ quiet, A veel’d iz blood ta bwile athin At jitchy zort o’ riot;

Za out a jump’d amangst ‘em âll! A made a desperd bussle; Zum hirn’d awâ—zum made a ston; Wi’ zum a had a tussle.

Iz stick now sar’d ‘em justice good; It war a tough groun ash; Upon ther heads a plâ‘d awâ, An round about did drash.

Thâ belg’d, thâ raur’d, thâ scamper’d âll. A zoon voun rum ta stoory; A thawt a’d be reveng’d at once, Athout a judge or jury.

An, thaw a brawk navy-body’s bwons, A gid zum bloody nawzes; Tha pirty maids war fainty too; Hirn’d vrom ther cheaks tha rawzes.

Thinks he, me gennelmen! when nex I goo to Glassenbery, Yea shant ha jitch a rig wi’ I, Nor at my cost be merry.

Zaw, havin clear’d izzel a wâ. Right whim went Jerry Nutty; A flourished roun iz wâkin stick; An vleng’d awâ iz tutty.

 

A LEGEND OF GLASTONBURY.

[First Printed in “Graphic Illustrator, p. 124.]

 

I cannot do better than introduce here “A Legend of Glastonbury,” made up, not from books, but from oral tradition once very prevalent in and near Glastonbury,